


Harry Potter and the Slytherin's Stone

by Half_BloodPrincess



Series: Slytherin Harry [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adventure, Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 04:22:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1844266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Half_BloodPrincess/pseuds/Half_BloodPrincess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who said that all heroes had to be brave? Who said that all heroes had to be bold? Who said that all heroes should be Gryffindors? Who said that all heroes want to be heroes? Who said that Harry Potter was a hero? Warning - Strong abuse and swearing. COMPLETE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1 - The Dead

_\- Chapter 1 -_

 

_The Dead_

 

James Potter sighed to himself as he slumped over his kitchen table. _We’re screwed,_ he thought to himself. _We’re all so very screwed._ Once more, he looked over the crumpled parchment he held in his hand.

 

 

_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches,_

_Born to those who have thrice defied him,_

_Born as the seventh month dies._

 

_And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal,_

_But he will have power the Dark Lord knows not,_

_And either must die at the hand of the other,_

_For neither can live while the other survives._

 

_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord,_

_Will be born as the seventh month dies…_

 

It was written in Dumbledore’s spindly script, and the page also housed any notes that the Order had collectively decided were the most important. James had another three pages of notes and speculations somewhere, but they all added up to the same thing: Either his son or Frank’s son was going to kill Voldemort. Or…

 

But no, the second option didn’t bear thinking about. His son wouldn’t die. He couldn’t die. Harry wasn’t even two years old, and already, his life was being planned out for him.

 

“Dammit, it isn’t fair!” He hissed, banging his fist on the table. He jumped up as he felt a hand gently touch his shoulder. “Lils…” James sighed in relief; it had been his wife who’d scared him. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

 

“Silencing charm on my shoes,” she admitted, with a shake of her fiery red hair. “Didn’t want to wake Harry.” James ducked his head to her shoulder and when he raised it, some minutes later, tears were glistening in his eyes.

 

“Why _him_ , Lily? Why our Harry? He’s too young to have the world relying on him.” The tears were rolling freely down his face, now, and he wiped at them savagely with the sleeve of his robes. “And does this mean that we’re going to have to stay here ‘til he grows up, ‘til he can fight? Is Voldemort going to be around for that long?” A tinge of fear crept into James’ voice. “And what if he doesn’t want to fight? Will they make him? They can’t make him; I won’t let them!” Once more, he buried his face in the crook of Lily’s neck. She rubbed his back in small circles, making soothing noises until his shoulders stopped shaking.

 

“I know it’s hard, James, but our son will do what he has to do. Don’t forget, it could be little Neville, too; Harry might be safe.” Her brow furrowed slightly, as it often did when she was deep in thought. “After all, Neville is a pure-blood. Surely Voldemort would consider him the bigger threat and mark him?” She nodded to herself, pleased with her own logic. “It’ll all be okay, James. We’re under the Fidelius charm, anyway; no one can find us here.”

 

“I’m just so worried about him, Lils. Everything’s changing so fast. And now with this prophecy… I’m going to have to start behaving, aren’t I?” He looked up at Lily’s face, and nodded glumly to himself. “No more stupid pranks, no more Prongs with Moony. No more drunken nights…” James trailed off, his expression of horror showing exactly how ‘pleased’ he would be to give up his firewhiskey.

 

“It might not even be Harry, James. But yes, you are going to behave and grow up. Though, I don’t doubt that the Marauders will be looking to induct our son as their newest member.” James blushed a little at this; Sirius had already mentioned the idea a few times. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t have some fun, James. We’ll get through this, I know we will. We’ll survive, we always have. Just this time, Harry will be there with us.” Lily stretched up onto her toes, and placed a kiss on James’ head. “And Sirius, and Remus, and Peter can come round tomorrow for a booze-up. God knows we all need one.”

 

Lily giggled at the incredulous expression of sheer joy on James’ face. “What? There was a reason we got married, you know?” James joined in, laughing as he slung an arm around his wife’s shoulders.

 

“I love you, Lils. But I’d love you even more if you let Harry become an honorary Marauder…” James trailed off and gave Lily his best puppy dog impression.

 

“No, James! I will not have you four being a bad influence on our son!” Lily rolled her eyes at her immature husband.

 

“You know, it’s going to happen anyway…” James yelped as his wife batted his arm. “Okay, okay, you can influence him and he’ll be a ‘proper Prefect’ and a ‘real Head Boy’.” They both laughed, fondly remembering their school days, only a few years gone.

 

“I live in hope,” Lily giggled out.

 

“I do love you though, Lily. With all my heart.” James rested his forehead on his wife’s and stared unwaveringly into her emerald eyes.

 

“And I, you, James.”

 

_* * * * *_

 

A few hours later, James sat in the living room of his small cottage, having calmed down some. He had his wand in his hand; making clouds of smoke appear for his son. The little boy was laughing and trying to catch the smoke in his small fists. He pouted and shook his head when it slipped through his hands.

 

“He looks just like you when he does that,” Lily, teased, “with his hair all over the place. Honestly, I can never untangle it!”

 

“I don’t pout!” James protested. “I frown!”

 

“You’re pouting now, love,” Lily told him with a giggle. She leant down and kissed him on the cheek, her long, dark-red hair falling in front of their faces, hiding them from the rest of the world.

 

“Up!” A small voice demanded. Lily and James pulled apart, smiling. James reached down and picked the boy up from the floor to join in the group hug. A dimpled smile appeared on his face and his eyes fell shut. James watched on in awe.

 

Harry was 15 months old, now, but James never tired of his son. He had jet black hair that always looked a mess, just like his own. He had Lily’s eyes, though. They were almond-shaped and startlingly green. He got a dimple in his left cheek when he was really happy, but James wasn’t sure whose side of the family that trait came from.

 

“It’s bedtime, James,” Lily whispered in his ear. “Don’t play any more games with him, he hates sleeping as it is.” James reluctantly passed the child over, threw his wand back onto the sofa, and stretched out, yawning. Lily put Harry over her shoulder, using one hand to steady him. The other hand collected a wide assortment of toys as they made their way upstairs.

 

“He just wants to make mischief at night time!” James called after them. “Marauder stock, see?” Lily smiled ruefully and shook her head.

 

“Don’t you listen to your Daddy, Harry.” Lily whispered to her son. “You be Mommy’s little angel, instead.” She placed a soft kiss to his forehead as they climbed the stairs.

 

Outside, in the cold that always seemed to be present at Godric’s Hollow, a robed figure opened the creaking gate. A skeletal, white hand rose to point the wand it was holding at the door, which burst open at the figure’s command. As James came sprinting into the hall, the man was already over the threshold.

 

“Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off-” A shrill laugh, a whispered command, a flash of green light, and James Potter fell to the floor. Lily Potter, however, could be heard screaming upstairs.

 

Furniture scraped on the floor as she attempted to barricade herself in. She cursed herself for not having her wand with her. How stupid could she be? Nowhere was safe enough to warrant not carrying a weapon anymore.

 

For the second time that night, a door burst open. She stood with Harry in her arms, facing him. As he entered the room, she dropped the boy into the cot behind her, and threw her arms wide.

 

“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!” _What a sight she was!_ The man thought. Her lithe figure, coupled with her fiery red hair, half- cowering in front of the most powerful wizard in the world.

 

“Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside now…” The figure rasped as it advanced on her.

 

“Not Harry, please no. Take me, kill me instead-” He was in front of her now. She looked up into his eyes, pleading. “Not Harry!” She repeated, tears now streaming down her face. “Please… have mercy… have mercy…”

 

The hooded figure laughed, throwing his head back with wild abandon. As it turned to look at the woman, she saw the hood had fallen down. She looked upon the face of a man, a man who had once been beautiful. Tom Riddle, the logical part of her brain told her. Lord Voldemort, the panicked part of her brain said. Cruel bastard, the rest screamed. He smiled at her, a smile full of spite and hatred.

 

“Crucio,” he hissed, pointing his wand at her.

 

The woman fell to the floor screaming almost immediately. Her arms and legs flailed aimlessly. The man lowered his wand, his red eyes nearly burning a hole into the woman.

 

Slowly, carefully, the woman picked herself up off the floor. Her legs still shook, her arms still trembled, and every part of her still ached, but eventually she stood. Again, she was between Riddle and the cot.

 

“Stand aside, little Lily. I won’t ask again.” She didn’t move. “Avada Kedavra.” Green light reflected all around the room; the boy scrunched up his eyes. Lily crumpled once more. This time, her body was still. Voldemort crouched, his head cocked, so he could look into her emerald eyes.

 

“What he saw in you, I’ll never know. Filthy little Mudblood succubus.” He fairly spat the last word. A hand snaked out from underneath his robes and moved up to touch her red hair, and he bent his face to touch his lips to hers. Voldemort paused a few inches away, as a small voice rang out across the room.

 

“No!” Voldemort looked up, a smirk already on his face. There, his small hands clutching at the bars of his crib, was what he had come for. Messy black hair, like the man he had killed downstairs. Bright-green eyes, like the woman on the floor in front of him.

 

“Think you can stop me, little boy?” He laughed again. “Avada Kedavra.” He flicked his wand, lazily, at the child in the cot, turning away as he did so.

 

“No!” The boy growled. Voldemort spun, eyes flashing with confusion. The child was glowing, a deep purple colour. The man watched in satisfaction as the flash of green spun at the boy, hitting him in his forehead.

 

“No!” The boy cried out, in anguish, and the green reappeared, tinged in the same purple as the child. Voldemort stepped back.

 

“This… can’t… be…” His eyes widened as the jet of light hit him solidly in the chest. He felt nothing as the light consumed his entire form. A small part of his brain whispered that it wasn’t the end.

 

Harry seemed to float towards where the man had disappeared, but at the sight of his mother on the floor, he drifted to her.

 

“Momma?” He whispered. “Momma, wake up!” His small hands reached out to her, tugging at her hair and her clothes. He pressed his face to the ground in front of her, looking directly into her glassy-eyed stare.

 

“Momma, come play with me!” Harry got louder with each word he cried. “Momma, I need you! Momma!” The boy collapsed into tears, one of his fists wrapped around his mother’s index finger.

 

* * * * *

 

A few hundred miles away, somewhere in Scotland, two men sat in frantic discussion. One was old, with long grey hair, an even longer beard and shrewd blue eyes. The younger man was very young, in his early twenties, although to look into his steely onyx eyes, one might be forgiven for assuming that this man was much older than he seemed. His dark hair hung lankly around his face as he leant forwards, his head in his hands.

 

“He said it was tonight, Albus!” The younger man was clearly anguished. “He said he could get past the Fidelius! You have to do something!”

 

The older man sat back in his chair, his brow furrowed in thought. His left hand drummed out a pattern on the desk before he offered the younger man a bowl, filled with sweets.

 

“Bertie Botts Bean, Severus?” He offered, with a twinkle in his eye. At Severus’ glare, he merely shrugged and placed the bowl back onto his desk. “There is no way for him to get past the Fidelius, my boy. The Potters are safe. _She_ is safe.”

 

“You didn’t see him, Headmaster!” The young professor stood and began to pace. “He was to go to the Potters, and then to the Longbottoms! He was so sure of himself! And, as deluded as the man may be, he is no fool! You must do something! You must stop him!”

 

“I will go to Godric’s Hollow, if only to appease you, Severus,” Albus sighed quietly. “Stay here, I shall return shortly.” He turned abruptly, to the fiery phoenix behind him. “Fawkes? Would you be so kind as to carry me to the gates? And then I would be most grateful if you would return and keep our dear Professor Snape company.”

 

The bird trilled merrily before gracefully launching itself into the air. It slowed, as it passed next to the headmaster, who grasped the bird’s tail feathers, and was lifted into the air.

 

“Oh, and Severus?” he called, as they passed out of the window. “Do tell Minerva I’ve gone!”

 

The young man sighed as he watched the elder man reach the gates before apparating away.

 

“I hope you’re right, you old coot,” he whispered to himself. “I hope you’re right.” Severus crossed to the fireplace and took a pinch of Floo powder from the pot above the mantelpiece. He threw it into the fire, calling for Minerva McGonagall as he did so.

 

A few moments later, a woman’s head appeared in the fireplace.

 

“Yes, Mister Snape?” Her Scottish accent was always pronounced when she was annoyed, and unfortunately for Severus, she was most definitely annoyed.

 

“It’s Professor Snape, as well you know!” He shot the woman an angry glare, at which she rolled her eyes. “Dumbledore asked me to tell you that he has gone to check on the Potters and the Longbottoms. He may be away for a little while.”

 

“Thank you, _Professor_ Snape. Is that all?”

 

“Yes,” The man hissed, as Minerva’s head popped out of the fireplace. He continued his pacing, making sure to walk by the window, and watch for the Headmaster’s return.

 

As it was, due to his pacing, he missed the man apparating to the gates, and only saw as Albus began to run towards Hagrid’s hut. Snape froze. Albus never ran. Something was wrong.

 

Severus tore down the revolving stairs, having to pause a second for the gargoyle to open enough for him to squeeze past. He ran as fast as he could to the hut, reaching it as an intense pain tore through his left arm. He fell to his knees, screaming, barely noticing as Dumbledore came to his side, and the half-giant exited through the gates.

 

When the pain in his arm had dulled enough for Severus to be able to think clearly, he ripped his shirtsleeve off to get a better look at his arm. His dark mark was fading already; it was merely red, rather than the usual black.

 

“He is gone?” Severus looked up at the wizard in front of him, who nodded in response. “And Lily?” Severus only had to look at Dumbledore’s watery eyes to know the answer to that.

 

“I’m so sorry, my boy.” At that, Severus collapsed into tears, burying his face into the older man’s robes.

 

“Her son, Severus.” Albus spoke softly. “Her son lives. He has her eyes, you know? And all over the world, people will raise their glasses to the memories of James and Lily Potter. But they will drink to Harry Potter - the boy who lived!”

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2 - Freak

Number Four Privet Drive hadn’t changed much in the past ten years. It wasn’t dissimilar in appearance to the other houses on the street. In fact, all of the houses looked remarkably alike. The sun still rose on tidy gardens, although one house now sported several rose bushes and a small tree. Respectable guests still knocked on the door for dinner, carrying wine or flowers. This ritual was now held only once a month, rather than every weekend.

 

Vernon and Petunia Dursley still lived in the house with their son, Dudley Dursley. Their house was still cluttered with a wide range of photographs; a large, blond boy grinned in most of them. Many years before, the pictures had been of what looked like a pink beach ball adorned with a tuft of blond fluff, different coloured bobble hats in each, surrounded by toys. The Dursley’s wedding pictures still sat on Petunia Dursley’s dressing table in their bedroom. The pictures of them and their friends had now been relegated to the spare room, although those showing them with a Mr. Garth Roberts had now been burned, due to a minor disagreement about their respective political ideas.

 

Hidden in the kitchen, behind a rather hideous porcelain dog, was a photograph that the Dursleys wished for nobody to see. It was of a pair of young boys, the first with dark, messy hair and a lightning bolt scar on his forehead, the second with blonde hair, who was more rotund. The dark-haired boy was smirking, an arm tossed loosely around the blond boy, who seemed to be wincing at this slight contact. It was the only outward sign that two boys lived here; Dudley, and the nefarious Harry Potter.

 

Mr and Mrs Dursley were at their wits’ end with their nephew. Ever since they had woken up one chilly November morning and found the child in a Moses basket on their doorstep, they had regretted taking him in. The boy had caused them nothing but trouble; he scared their son with his mysterious pranks, he unnerved his teachers with his dark humour, and, somehow, any children at school that offended him seemed to end up getting hurt. Of course, nobody could prove that there was anything wrong with the child, but everybody suspected that something wasn’t quite right.

 

Vernon and Petunia had tried ignoring Harry, but his behaviour had escalated, forcing them to take notice and punish him. Then they had tried punishing him for every little thing that could be linked to him, but this just caused him to cover his tracks more efficiently. Last year, after a heated debate, they had decided to be nice to him in an attempt to gain his favour. They had tried to talk to him, they fed him nearly as much as Dudley, and even gave him a new pair of shoes, but he disregarded their efforts to show him affection, telling them he knew that it was obviously fake, and he had never really cared for them, either.

 

One of Harry’s teachers had sent him to a counsellor, hoping that this would somewhat tame him and maybe even make him stop threatening the other children. The fiasco had ended with a sobbing counsellor, a confused teacher, and a small boy snickering to himself. When Vernon Dursley heard about this, he decided that enough was enough. He couldn’t tolerate _that menace_ in his house any longer. The boy would have to be sent away; nothing else could be done. After much deliberation, he and Petunia had decided that there was only one school that could cope with the brat: St Brutus’s Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys.

 

Whilst Vernon called the school and ensured that Harry would have a place at St Brutus’s, his nephew was once more up to his usual tricks. He was currently hiding in a patch of bushes near the park, waiting for his favourite, and only, cousin to walk by. Harry’s most enjoyable pastime had recently become making Dudley’s life as much of a misery as his aunt and uncle made his own. Consequently, Dudley was now rather scared of Harry and seemed to jump whenever Harry was near.

 

It would be Dudley’s birthday soon, Harry knew, and Dudley was probably having another big party. Harry couldn’t remember a party for any of his birthdays, but he could remember the events of every single one of Dudley’s. After all, many of them were some of his least favourite memories. At Dudley’s fifth birthday party, Harry had been repeatedly whacked round the shins, and last year, at Dudley’s tenth birthday party, he had been chased up a tree by a particularly vicious dog.

 

He jerked himself out of his recollections as Dudley waddled past his spot in the bushes. Harry waited until the blond boy was in the shadows directly in front of him before jumping out and grabbing him from behind. Dudley squealed loudly before the arm around his neck jerked sharply into his windpipe.

 

“Shut up, you overgrown oaf!” Harry hissed menacingly. “I need you to tell me something.” Dudley began to tremble at these words; Harry had never wanted him to do anything good nor had there ever been an opportunity to decline him. Harry didn’t ask, Harry _told._ “Why did you take that money from your Mum’s purse?”

 

“But I didn’t!” The words escaped Dudley’s mouth shrilly. “You did!”

 

“No, Dudders, it was you.” Harry spun the other boy around, and glared into his eyes. “ _You took that money. Don’t you remember? You bought cakes with it. And some water balloons. You threw them at little kids_.” Harry’s voice had taken on a hypnotic tone; it was a well-used tactic, one that worked every time. Harry watched all traces of defiance slip from his cousin’s eyes and felt the boy’s shoulders slump. “ _You’re going to tell them you took that money.”_

 

“Fine. I’ll tell them.” Dudley sounded dejected; he tore his eyes from Harry’s and shuffled his feet. “I’m sorry I lied.” Harry smirked, and nodded.

 

“ _Go and tell them. Quickly._ ” The boy flinched at the venom in Harry’s voice but did as he was ordered. He ran, not knowing or caring why he did so, only understanding that he had to obey his cousin.

 

Harry grinned at the retreating flab and followed on more slowly. Over the past few years, he had learnt that if he focused hard enough, he could make people do what he wanted. It would have been easier to just use this talent to force everyone to do what he wanted, but it made him feel a bit tired if he did it too much, and it didn’t work as well on some people, like his Aunt and old Mrs Figg. And he could only do it on one person at a time; otherwise, he’d lose control of the first.

 

By the time he reached Privet Drive, he could hear shouting coming from number four. He slipped around the back of the house; he was forbidden from using the front door. As he edged into the kitchen, the shouting grew louder.

 

“I KNOW IT WASN’T YOU, DUDLEY! I KNOW IT WAS THAT POTTER BRAT! DON’T YOU DARE LIE TO ME.” Uncle Vernon was practically screaming at Dudley. Harry could imagine his face; it’d be purple and blotchy by now. And the vein in his head would be popping out. He couldn’t understand Dudley’s reply. The stupid git was crying.

 

“DON’T LIE TO ME, SON! YOU’VE NO REASON TO BE SCARED OF HIM! HE’LL BE GONE SOON ENOUGH!” Harry’s head jerked at this. _He was leaving? Where was he going? And why didn’t he know anything about it?_ Harry threw open the kitchen door and stalked into the living room.

 

“Where will I be going to, Uncle Vernon?” Harry asked, rather politely. He had learnt years ago that showing any anger or emotion towards his uncle would only lead to a beating.

 

“THAT’S NONE OF YOUR BUS-“

 

“St Brutus’s,” Harry’s Aunt Petunia cut Vernon off. “It’s an institute for criminal boys, like you.”

 

“Criminal boys like me, Auntie? I think you’ve got me and Dudders mixed up. He’s the one that’s been stealing, not me.” Harry smirked at his aunt before turning to survey the living room. Uncle Vernon was standing in front of the sofa, his face purple and blotchy as Harry had predicted, but the vein hadn’t yet popped out. Dudley was cowering in front of him. It looked as if Uncle Vernon had pulled his son up then promptly dropped him on the floor. Aunt Petunia was in her favourite chair, next to the gas fire. She had one hand pressed to her forehead, the other wrapped around a glass of sherry.

 

“Go to your room. This is not up for discussion. You’re going to St Brutus’s, and that’s final.” Aunt Petunia drained her sherry before sinking even further into her chair. “I expect you be up early tomorrow as you’re going to Mrs Figg’s house. We’re taking our _law-abiding_ son to the zoo.”

 

“You heard her, boy! GO!” Vernon bellowed the last word as he advanced. Harry wisely decided to heed his Uncle’s words and headed to the cupboard under the stairs. It was small, and it was dark, and it was full of spiders, but it was his. None of the Dursleys would ever go into his cupboard; they were probably scared about what they’d find. Harry, a few years ago, had managed to ‘borrow’ a bolt from a neighbour’s shed, so he could now bolt his cupboard shut, effectively locking the Dursleys out.

 

They'd 'given' him this room when he'd been around three. At the time, he'd been too young and naïve to understand that by giving him a _cupboard_ they were maligning him. As the years passed, however, he had come to appreciate the space that none of his so-called family would ever enter. His cupboard became almost sacred, a place where he could be as free as he ever was.

 

Harry rummaged at the bottom of his mattress in the dark, finally finding a ratty old pair of pyjama trousers. He quickly changed into them and curled up with his arms under his head. It was Dudley’s birthday tomorrow. He’d be eleven. Harry wanted to go to the zoo with Dudley and Piers more than he would ever admit, but he knew the Dursleys would rather cut their arms and legs off than let him go with them.

 

When he and Dudley were younger, Dudley had often had the upper hand. He was the oldest, the biggest, and his parents were always on his side. None of that had changed, but Harry had. Harry had taken the time to learn what made Dudley, and the older Dursleys, tick. He knew what they liked, what they hated, and most important of all, he knew what they feared.

 

Dudley Dursley couldn’t stand snakes or spiders of any kind. He liked to kill any bugs that he found because it made him feel powerful. Petunia Dursley got worked up when things weren’t in their correct places, or when something wasn’t clean. She wouldn’t be able to cope a day without her sherry; it was the only thing that made her feel in control. Vernon Dursley devoted himself to his work. It was his desire to run the company one day and sit around all day in a big office, doing nothing. He was scared of not being in charge. It terrified him to have to do what someone else told him, to not be able to do what he wanted.

 

And they would all happily die of embarrassment.

 

Over the years, Harry had been able to use these facts to his advantage. For instance, once he’d let Dudley know that there were spiders in his cupboard; he’d stopped taking Harry’s things from there.

 

As he settled himself to sleep, he wished fervently that Mrs Figg wouldn’t be able to look after him tomorrow. Maybe she’d have an accident or something and he’d be able to go to the zoo. He’d never been to the zoo before, but he’d read about all of the animals. Harry smiled a little in his sleep, a small dimple appearing on his left cheek.

 

\- HBP - HBP - HBP - HBP - HBP -

 

Harry awoke to the sound of his Aunt Petunia’s shrill voice. It pierced through his skull, and he groggily covered his ears.

 

“Up! Get up! Now!” she screeched. “I told you to be up early, useless boy!” Harry sat with a start as his aunt rapped on the door. “Up!” Harry heard the clicking of her heels on the wooden floor move towards the kitchen and then the sound of the frying pan being put on the cooker.

 

With a smirk to himself, he recalled the dream he had been having before his rude awakening. Mrs Figg had been run over by a car. It was mildly satisfying to imagine the batty old woman with a broken leg – although, if she’d died, it would surely have been much more amusing.

 

Harry stretched out as much as he could in his cupboard then delved into the pile of clothes at the bottom of his mattress for something reasonably decent to wear. A few minutes later, he entered the kitchen in a bottle-green jumper (three sizes too big) and a pair of jeans (which were too long for him) with a hole in the knee.

 

“Finally!” his aunt hissed. “Look after the bacon, and do some eggs. I want everything perfect on my special boy’s birthday!” she said, the latter with a false enthusiasm that made Harry want to retch.

 

Instead of throwing up, Harry made his way carefully past the table, which was piled high with Dudley’s birthday presents. It looked like Dudley had gotten the new television he’d wanted, along with the new computer and the pair of skis. It was a mystery to Harry as to why his cousin wanted skis; after all, the Dursleys had never taken him skiing. And it wasn’t as if Dudley ever exercised, except to try to run away from him, which always failed miserably. Harry didn’t look it, but he was fast.

 

Harry was very thin. The Dursleys accounted this to the small amount of food they gave him, but Harry knew it wasn’t. Late at night, when they were sleeping or when they were out, he’d sneak food from the kitchen. He always kept a store of biscuits and cheese under a floorboard in his cupboard. Once, when he was about six, they’d locked him in his cupboard for two whole days without any food. Harry had thought he was going to die.

 

Harry watched his aunt carefully as she disappeared from the room, on the pretence of ‘getting her darling angels up’, but in reality was probably a trip to the sherry. Sure enough, a few moments later, he could hear the tinkling of glasses from the sitting room. Knowing that he was alone, he scraped up a couple of pieces of the bacon and hungrily gobbled them down. However, before he had time to eat anymore, his uncle entered the room.

 

Vernon Dursley was a big, beefy man with a quick temper and a streak of cruelty that had been ingrained in him by his father. Harry visibly shrank as Vernon entered the room, subconsciously hoping not to be noticed. However, unfortunately for Harry, his uncle was in a bad mood. He’d been woken up by his wife’s caterwauling and his son screaming that he wanted food.

 

As he walked past Harry, he cuffed him in the back of the head and dug at his ribs.

 

“Where the hell is my breakfast, boy?” He punctuated the last word with a punch to Harry’s side. Harry grunted in pain and tensed, making sure he was still cooking.

 

“It’s coming, Uncle,” he whimpered. “One more minute, less even!” Apparently satisfied, Vernon sat himself at the far end of the table and hid behind a newspaper. Harry quickly dished up breakfast and hurried to give a plate to his uncle.

 

He put the other two plates in any space on the table he could find, carefully moving presents to make room. Then, he went back to the cooker and put several slices of bread under the grill, hiding another few pieces under his jumper. He’d eat the bread back in his cupboard or at Mrs Figg’s.

 

Mrs Figg was a batty old woman who lived two streets away. Her whole house stunk of cabbage and there were always at least five cats in residence. At least Mrs Figg would feed him, though. And he could sit on the sofa there. Once, she’d even let him curl up and take a nap when he’d been having a particularly bad day. But then he’d have to look at a load of pictures of cats and help rewrite recipes, and the day that she’d let him sleep, she’d also made him _knit._

 

Dudley and Harry’s Aunt Petunia entered the room then, disturbing Harry’s inner musings.

 

“Breakfast’s on the table,” Harry muttered, but neither heard him due to Dudley’s shriek of delight at the mound of presents. He rushed towards them and began to count, grabbing at the food on both plates and stuffing it greedily into his mouth.

 

“There’s only thirty-six.” His face fell. “I had thirty-seven last year. That’s not fair!” Dudley had begun to wail, but he stopped when he saw Harry. “You took my presents, didn’t you?” He tottered over and punched Harry squarely in the stomach before turning back round to his parents. “I want more presents!”

 

Luckily for Petunia, the phone rang and she disappeared, leaving Harry curled up on the floor and Vernon attempting to calm his precious son. When she re-entered the room a few minutes later, Harry had managed to crawl to the corner of the kitchen and Vernon had promised Dudley two more presents.

 

“Bad news, Vernon.” Petunia had a glass of sherry in her hand. Harry checked his battered watch; it read ten past nine. _Bit early for her to be drinking in front of people_ , he thought to himself. She took another sip of sherry to fortify herself.

 

“Well, spit it out then, woman!” Uncle Vernon snapped, his beady eyes not moving from his newspaper.

 

“It’s Mrs Figg. She can’t take the boy.” With this, Petunia downed the rest of her glass before digging through a cupboard to produce a bottle of gin.

 

“Why the bloody hell not?” Petunia seemed unfazed by her husband’s roar of anger, merely taking a slightly larger gulp of gin.

 

“A car accident. I think it was Mr. Thomas’ eldest son, Derek. Broken her leg.” Petunia seemed indifferent, but Harry was ecstatic. Admittedly, he was a little freaked out that it had happened almost exactly like his dream, but it was brilliant!

 

“Isn’t there anyone else that can take him?” His uncle sounded a bit desperate to Harry’s ears.

 

“Like who, Vernon?” His aunt was whining; she always did when she drank. “Just leave him here!”

 

“I suppose…” Vernon considered it for a minute. “Maybe if we locked him in his cupboard…” Harry grimaced at this. Usually, he didn’t get locked in his cupboard unless he did something wrong, like the time he’d been running away from Dudley’s gang and had then appeared on the school roof. He’d been in the cupboard for a week that time, though they did give him food.

 

Then again, at least that was one of the times he knew what he’d done wrong. When he was younger, the Dursleys had beaten him every time he mentioned things like wizards and goblins and ghosts in his story books. Or when bad things happened to them, like the time Dudley got detention, or when Uncle Vernon hadn’t gotten the promotion he’d wanted . . . Harry got punished a lot for those.

 

“Why? Afraid I’ll blow up the house?” Harry asked petulantly. Uncle Vernon wouldn’t hurt him too badly. Aunt Petunia’s friend was visiting tomorrow and she knew he existed, she’d notice… He hoped.

 

“He’ll have to come with us, Vernon!” Petunia paused to hiccup. “What if he were to get to my china?” Hearing this from his own mother, Dudley began to sob.

 

“I…I…no…mommy…please…no!” However, before Dudley could really get into his stride, the doorbell went. It was Dudley’s best friend, Piers Polkiss. Immediately, all of the Dursleys quieted. After all, they had to show the rest of the world what a normal, well-adjusted family they were.

 

\- HBP - HBP - HBP - HBP - HBP -

 

And so it was that two hours later, Harry found himself at the zoo. Dudley and Piers had wanted to see all of the big animals, and had both loved the monkeys, so Harry had been forced to follow along with them. However, during the course of the morning, Harry had had his first ever ice lolly.

 

The Dursleys had been getting the largest possible ice creams for Dudley and Piers and hadn’t managed to spirit Harry away before the saleswoman could ask what he wanted.

 

“Can I have the biggest, most chocolate-ly ice cream there is, please?” Harry had asked the woman, barely looking at his uncle.

 

“Sure, honey.” She’d turned to prepare it until Vernon had stepped in.

 

“Erm, no. He won’t be having that. The _boy_ here is lactose intolerant.” Harry flinched at the force the man had used whilst squeezing his shoulder.

 

“Can I have the biggest one without milk then?” Vernon had had no response to this, so Harry had gotten a rocket lolly. He didn’t understand what all the fuss was about, really. It was just frozen fruit juice, really.

 

Finally, by mid-afternoon, the Dursleys had reached the one place that Harry was excited to go to: the reptile house. It was quite dark and cool, as well. Harry wished his cupboard was cool, too; in the summer, it got awfully stuffy and hot. But this room was nice; it was really big, too. Set into the walls were glass cases, most containing boring things like frogs and toads and various types of gecko and iguana.

 

Dudley and Piers, of course, had headed straight for the biggest, most dangerous snake. Harry stood a little way away, watching to see when they’d get bored. Harry loved snakes. He’d never seen one, but they seemed to be ever so beautiful and majestic in the books he'd read.

 

“Why won’t it move?” Dudley whined. “I want it to move!” Piers banged on the glass a few times before both boys moved to more energetic creatures. Harry, meanwhile, headed for the tank they’d abandoned.

 

As soon as Harry laid eyes on the snake, he knew that he’d been right. This snake was a beautiful dark green colour and gigantic. It was coiled up, but even as Harry watched, it began to slowly slither to a small pool of water.

 

“Oh, you’re so beautiful, aren’t you?” Harry mumbled to himself. The snake suddenly paused, and stared straight at him. Its eyes were a warm amber colour. _No,_ Harry thought, _her eyes._ A second later, he realised how irrational this was. How the hell would he know if the damn snake was a male or female?

 

“Are you a girlie, then?” He was so busy musing this that he barely noticed the snake’s head bobbing. _Almost like she’s nodding._

 

“Must be horrible, stuck in here.” Again, the snake ‘nodded’. “I bet it’s like my cupboard. Not enough room to breathe, is it really?” The snake shook her head.

 

Harry frowned. The snake seemed to be communicating with him, but surely that was impossible… Only one way to tell, really.

 

“Can you understand me?” Nod. “Can you understand everyone?” Shake. “Can you…umm… talk or something?”

 

“Yesssss!” Harry flinched. That voice, rasping and hoarse, had come from in front of him. He had seen the snake’s mouth open. That voice had been the snake!

 

“Will you releasssssse me, young massssster?” Harry stared, open mouthed at the snake. “Pleasssssse! I have been ssssssstuck in thissssss place too long!” Harry could hear the longing and wistfulness in the snake’s voice.

 

“If I did let you go, how would I do it? And what would I get for it?” Harry’s brow furrowed. “I wouldn’t want to get in any trouble; I mean, they’d know it was me.”

 

“Vanisssssssssh the glass! Make it go away!” _Vanish the glass? Make it disappear? He’d done that to some of Dudley’s things before…_

 

“What’s in it for me?” Harry repeated.

 

“I can bite sssssomeone for the young ssssssir!” Harry considered for a moment, before concentrating on making the glass disappear.

 

“One of the fat ones,” he whispered, moving away from the tank. He didn’t want to be anywhere near the snake when it bit Vernon or Dudley. As Harry reached the other end of the building, the snake’s head popped out of the tank.

 

The first person to notice was Aunt Petunia, who’d been hiding near the door.

 

“Ssss…snake!” She shrieked before running out of the door. Vernon stood in front of Piers and Dudley then pushed Harry in between him and the snake. The other people in the reptile house screamed, and they either headed for the door or the furthest corner from the snake.

 

The snake was, by this time, fully out of the tank, and she looked up at Harry and seemed to grin before biting the leg of an overweight woman stumbling past. Harry came very close to growling and stamping his foot. The stupid snake had gotten one over on him!

 

An hour or two later, the Dursleys and Piers’ parents were sitting in the living room; Harry was in the kitchen making tea. Both Dudley and Piers were telling their parents how the snake had tried to kill them (by glaring) and how the keeper had only managed to catch it thanks to their help (by cowering in the corner, and nearly peeing themselves).

 

“It was so weird, though,” Piers was telling his father. “The glass just disappeared.”

 

“Yeah, can’t imagine what could’ve happened,” Dudley agreed.

 

“Maybe your cousin knows; he was right next to the tank before it disappeared.”

 

Uncle Vernon waited until the Polkiss family had left before laying into Harry.

 

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL DID YOU DO, BOY?” he had screamed, and with a firm grip on Harry’s hair, he had dragged him into the kitchen. “I KNOW IT WAS YOU! DON’T YOU DARE LIE TO ME!”

 

“I…I…wasn’t…didn’t…no…please…no…” Harry’s cries were cut off by Vernon’s fist hitting his stomach, repeatedly.

 

“TELL ME WHAT YOU DID!” A punch to the face, Harry felt his glasses snap again, and his nose began to spurt blood.

 

“…didn’t mean…sorry… please… so sorry…” Vernon let go of the dark mass of hair he was holding and the boy dropped to the ground, instinctively curling into a foetal position. Harry looked up at his uncle fearfully, only to see the man removing his belt. “…no…please….not again…stop…please…” Harry’s feeble moans were cut off by the belt hitting his side, hard.

 

“THIS’LL TEACH YOU, BOY!” The belt hit his back this time, and again, and again, and again, until Harry lost count of how many times he’d been hit.

 

“..sorrysorrysorrysorrysorry…” Harry chanted, although to whom he was sorry, he didn’t know. After a time, the lashings stopped.

 

“You bled all over my floor!” A menacing whisper in his ear. His aunt. “Clean it. Then go and stay in your cupboard. Forever.”

 

Harry scrambled to the cupboard, pulled out a cleaning solution, and began to scrub. His back and ribs were so sore that it hurt him to move, but he didn’t want to risk what his uncle might do if he dared to disobey.

 

Once the floor was shining again, Harry got to his feet and stumbled to his cupboard, his uncle following. As the door was slammed shut behind him, he heard his uncle scream hoarsely at him.

 

“I WON’T HAVE THAT SORT OF BEHAVIOUR IN MY HOUSE, YOU FREAK!” Freak. Harry had been called it at school a lot, his baggy clothes and broken glasses setting him apart from the other children. Freak. A teacher had called him one once, when her wig had inexplicably turned blue in a one to one maths lesson. Freak. Petunia had called him one, when a strange man in a top hat had bowed to him in a shop. Freak. This was him. Freak. This was life. Freak. This was Harry Potter.

 

Freak.

 


	3. Chapter 3 - The Letters

Except for the beating he received, the snake-escape was one of the best things to happen to Harry that year. For one thing, he hadn’t been allowed out of the cupboard for several weeks, so he managed to miss the end of school. Doubtless, Vernon had thought it would upset him not to be able to say goodbye to his friends. _Ha,_ thought Harry, _the joke’s on him._ For Harry had no friends to say goodbye to; Dudley’s gang saw to that.

 

When he was younger, some of the teachers had wondered where he would disappear to. One had even called a meeting with Vernon and Petunia. Harry had nearly gotten excited at this, but in hindsight, he should’ve known better. None of his teachers liked him, not really. Most of them just ignored him.

 

When the teachers asked why he didn’t go to school, Petunia had cried.

 

“He’s not a bad boy!” she had sobbed. “But we… we don’t know what to do with him anymore! We send him with Dudley in the mornings, and he comes back home, and how’re we supposed to know if he comes or not? And he bullies our Dudley, too! Oh, we can’t stop him!”

 

And the bastards had believed her.

 

Then had come the counsellor. Harry hadn’t meant to make the woman cry, it had just happened. In retrospect, it had probably made the teachers agree with his aunt even further, but at the time it had just been a bit of fun. Now, none of the teachers seemed to care.

 

Another good thing about being locked in the cupboard was that the Dursleys didn’t think he could get out. They didn’t know that if he dragged his palm across the inside of the door, just the right way, the bolt on the outside of the door would unlock. And so, they didn’t notice when food went missing. Nice food, too, like biscuits and cake.

 

And probably the best, while he was in the cupboard, nobody beat him. No, that was definitely the best part about being in the cupboard. He was safe in his cupboard. He could just curl up and sleep and let his wounds heal. His back and his sides were pretty much healed by the time they let him out; they were just thin scars with a couple of scabs here and there.

 

All in all, Harry hadn’t minded being in the cupboard. Though, now he was out, and he had to contend with Dudley’s gang. Every morning, one or another of them came to Privet Drive to collect Dudley.

 

The whole gang liked to indulge in Dudley’s favourite sport: Harry-hunting. Most days, he hid and ran when they came around, but sometimes he couldn’t get away. The last time that had happened, Harry had gotten beaten up. That had been a really bad day. They’d cornered him, and Harry had tried to use his controlling voice to make them stop, but it hadn’t worked. After that, Harry thought he could only use it on one person at a time. Even if he could use it on more people, it was better not to risk it again.

 

So, Harry spent a lot of time out of the house, just walking around. In some ways, he couldn’t wait until the end of the summer. He’d be going away for school, away from his uncle, away from his aunt, away from his cousin. Maybe, just maybe, things would be different. Maybe he wouldn’t be beaten. Maybe he’d get enough to eat. Maybe he’d even have a friend.

 

While he’d been in his cupboard, Petunia had taken Dudley to get his new school uniform. Dudley was going to Uncle Vernon’s old school, Smeltings. Smeltings boys had a really strange uniform. Privately, Harry was glad that he didn’t have to wear anything like it. The uniform was mostly a dark brown colour, with little orange tassels in odd places. They had to wear a straw hat all the time, and they carried knobbly sticks to hit each other with.

 

Harry’s aunt and uncle had tears in their eyes as they looked at Dudley. They said they were tears of pride, but Harry thought it was tears of joy that Dudley would be leaving, too. As he tried not to snigger, Harry wondered if it was possible to break ribs from laughing, because if it was possible, he might just do it later.

 

When Harry got up the next morning, there was a terrible smell coming from the kitchen. He hurriedly got dressed and headed in, hoping that one (or all) of the Dursleys had died and that it was their rotting bodies he smelled. When he entered the room however, he learnt he had no such good luck.

 

The smell seemed to be coming from the sink, so Harry ambled over for a closer look. The tub was full of scraps of cloth in dirty, grey water.

 

“That’ll be _your_ uniform,” Petunia told him as she breezed through the kitchen. Harry looked again, thoughtfully. _Most of them aren’t really scraps of cloth, they could be actual clothes…_

 

“Why are they wet?” He asked curiously.

 

“Don’t ask questions!” His aunt threw out her usual remark before deciding to answer anyway. “I’m dyeing some of Dudley’s old things grey.”

 

Harry very nearly opened his mouth to ask why he couldn’t have some of his own clothes for his new school, but decided to keep his mouth shut as his uncle and cousin walked in.

 

Like normal, Harry seemed to huddle in on himself, and again, like normal, Vernon Dursley saw and cuffed the back of his head slightly harder than usual. Harry put a hand up to his head; he could feel a headache coming already.

 

As they all sat down at the table, they heard the clicking of the letterbox.

 

“Get the post, Dudley.” Vernon said, his mouth full of food and his face hidden behind his newspaper.

 

“Make Harry get it.”

 

“Get the post, Harry.”

 

“Make Dudley get it.”

 

“Hit him with your Smeltings stick, Dudley.”

 

Harry tried, and failed, to dodge the stick, which hit him squarely in the ribs and went to get the post. There was a pile of letters on the doormat: A postcard for Uncle Vernon, three bills, two magazines for Petunia, a small package that looked like it contained a video tape, presumably for Dudley, and a letter for Harry.

 

Harry stared at it uncomprehendingly. This was the first letter that anyone had ever sent him. He just didn’t get letters. It didn’t make any sense. Who would ever write to him? You had to have a friend or someone who cared about you, at least, to write to you. So why did Harry have a letter?

 

The envelope was thick and heavy, made of what looked like - no it couldn’t be - parchment. Nobody used parchment anymore, not since the Romans, or the Vikings, or Egyptians or somebody a long time ago, anyway. The address was written in ink that was the same colour as his eyes, emerald green.

 

_Mr H. Potter_

_The Cupboard under the Stairs_

_4 Privet Drive_

_Little Whinging_

_Surrey_

 

Harry’s eyes were still glued to the envelope when he heard a floorboard creak. His hands disappeared behind his back, taking the letter with them, and his eyes flew to the figure in the doorway.

 

“Dad!” His cousin’s eyes were wide, his podgy face scrunched up in indignation. “Dad, Harry’s got a letter! Why haven’t I got a letter?”

 

“I haven’t got anything!” Harry called back to the kitchen. “Why would I have a letter?”

 

“It’s behind your back, you liar! I saw it!” Dudley’s face was taking on the purplish shades that his father’s often did by now. “Take it off him, Dad!”

 

“Boy!” Harry’s shoulders slumped at his Uncle’s roar. There was no way that his Uncle would let him keep his letter. Maybe whoever it was would send another. He could hope, at least. “Get in here boy!”

 

Harry trudged into the kitchen, purposefully dragging his feet the way his aunt hated. His head bowed, he sulkily threw the letter in front of his uncle.

 

“Can I at least read it?” Harry attempted some modicum of manners, but all for naught. His Uncle’s face went from red, to green, to whiter than paper in the space of a sentence.

 

“Petunia…” His voice, already a hoarse whisper, trailed off. “It’s _them!”_ Petunia’s face seemed to compete with Vernon’s for the palest skin.

 

“Who?” Dudley and Harry called out together before looking at the other in disgust.

 

“It’s my letter, I have a right to know!” Harry all but screamed at his aunt and uncle.

 

“You can tell me, I’m part of the family, he’s not!” Dudley whined, looking angelically at his mother.

 

“Out! The pair of you.” Petunia glared at both boys and ushered them out of the room. Harry and Dudley both scowled at each other. Dudley muttered under his breath mutinously.

 

However, as soon as the door closed, Dudley’s ear was at the keyhole and Harry’s at the crack at the bottom of the door.

 

“Burn it, Vernon,” was all they heard.

 

\- HBP - HBP - HBP - HBP - HBP -

 

Three days had passed since the first letter had appeared, and Harry knew that several letters had been received every day since the first. His Uncle Vernon either burned them or ripped them to pieces, although once, Petunia had blended one with a mushy tomato.

 

Uncle Vernon had also appeared in the doorway of Harry’s cupboard and had told him in no uncertain terms that he was growing too big for the small space and should move into Dudley’s second bedroom immediately. Harry had, of course, protested, wanting to stay in his sanctuary. However, the beefy man had merely snapped and told him to move repeatedly.

 

And so it was that Harry found himself hastily carrying all of his possessions upstairs. It only took him two trips and one box. He didn’t like the room he was in now. With only his meagre belongings spread about the place, it seemed very spartan. Harry didn’t have many things that could be put out; he mainly owned clothes and books which he had ‘borrowed’ from various libraries.

 

The letters that followed this move were no longer labelled _Mr H. Potter, The Cupboard under the Stairs._ Instead, they were addressed to _Mr H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom._ Harry wondered how they, whoever it was sending the letters, knew that he’d moved rooms.

 

He wandered aimlessly in his newfound space, his mind utterly consumed with trying to find a solution to getting his hands on one of the letters. The trick would be to take a letter without anybody noticing. This wouldn’t be too difficult, as no less than four letters had arrived yesterday. One missing wouldn’t be questioned too thoroughly.

 

The biggest issue would be getting to the post. Harry knew that his Uncle had taken to sleeping at the front door so that Harry couldn’t take the letters when they were posted. _Perhaps,_ Harry thought to himself, _I could get the letter before it came through the door?_

 

The next morning, an alarm clock with a smashed face (from one of Dudley’s temper tantrums) woke Harry at six o’clock. He hurriedly shut it off, lest it woke any of the Dursleys, and reached for his glasses.

 

Sneaking towards the wardrobe, Harry quickly donned a pair of sweatpants and an old t-shirt. He snuck through the house and out the back door, snagging a trowel from his Aunt’s potting shed as he made his way around to the front of his house. Harry finally settled himself in front of one of the flowerbeds near the gate and kneeled, leaning into the soil as if he were weeding.

 

After about forty minutes of waiting, the postman appeared at the bottom of the road. Harry bent his head and waited until he heard the gate creak open.

 

“Here, I’ll have those off you,” Harry said brightly as he stood up, gathering the stack of post from the slightly bewildered man. “Thanks, mister.” He flicked through them briefly, before kneeling back down and messing with the soil a little. Harry’s fingers itched to race through the pile of letters and find _his_ letter, but he knew he couldn’t raise any suspicion.

 

Seven minutes later, the postman exited the street, sparing a wave and a smile for the young boy gardening early in the morning. Harry sighed gratefully, hid the trowel in a bush, and turned to the pile of mail. He skimmed through the top half of the pile, before coming to the first of his many letters. There were six today, but Vernon would only get to burn five. He separated one from the others and stared at it wistfully.

 

Harry only looked at it for one more second before making his decision. He stuffed it in the waistband of his trousers, carefully pulling his t-shirt over it so it couldn’t be seen, then stuffed the rest of the post through the letterbox. He ran around the back of the house and entered the kitchen as quickly as he could, praying that nobody else would be awake.

 

There were the sounds of creaking, and ripping as Harry quietly sifted through the cupboards, finding a suitable breakfast. By the time his Uncle had found his way to the kitchen, Harry was already seated at the table, eating a bowl of bran flakes.

 

“Won’t see any of these letters boy!” Vernon waved one at Harry spitefully before setting it alight in the sink. Harry scowled down at his cereal, wincing as the larger man slapped him.

 

“I want you out of the house today, boy. I’m taking Petunia and Dudley shopping for school things. Don’t want you back till after seven.” He took on a leery tone. “Or you’ll regret it.”

 

Harry gulped, nodded, and promptly left via the kitchen door. As soon as Harry was out of sight of the house, he was besieged by an urge to open the letter. Harry’s hand crept towards the bottom of his top before a passing car reminded him where he was. Harry jerked back to himself and headed for the park. It was early enough that not many people would be there but late enough for it to be fairly warm.

 

When Harry reached the park, he headed past the children’s adventure park and around the large lake to the wooded area beyond. Harry worked his way further in, his progress hampered by small bushes, and tree stumps that always seemed to be straight ahead of him. After about ten minutes, Harry judged that he was far enough away from the edge of the wood to be seen and promptly sat on the nearest tree stump.

 

Without further ado, he pulled the letter, almost reverently, from its hiding place. As he turned the envelope over, he saw a green wax seal with a coat of arms on it. There were four animals that seemed to be coming out of it, surrounding an ornate letter ‘H’. In the top left corner, there was a lion, to its right, a snake, below that a large bird that Harry thought was either an eagle or a hawk, and to the left of the bird was a badger. All in all, it was a rather odd assortment of animals. Harry felt that had they been left in a room together, they’d all end up dead, some way or another.

 

Harry gently pulled the wax seal away from the heavy parchment and almost reverently slid the vellum out of the envelope. He smoothed his fingers across its surface, before finally unfolding it.

 

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY_

_Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore_

_(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock,_

_Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)_

 

_Dear Mr Potter,_

 

_We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

 

_Terms begins on 1 September. If your owl is not forthcoming, by 31 July, please expect a visitation from one of our staff members, who will be expecting you to provide details of your alternative magical schooling._

 

_Yours sincerely,_

 

_Minerva McGonagall_

_Deputy Headmistress_

 

Behind this piece of parchment, was another, which Harry quickly perused.

 

_HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY_

 

_Uniform_

_First-year students will require;_

  * _Thee sets of plain work robes (black)_



  * _One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)_



  * _One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)_



  * _One pair of protective boots (dragon hide or similar)_



  * _One plain pointed hat for dress wear_



  * _One set of dress robes for dress wear_




 

_Please be advised that students will also be required to wear the following items of clothing during all lessons;_

  * _Shirt (White)_

  * _Trousers/Pleated skirt (Dark grey)_

  * _Black socks_

  * _Black shoes/boots_

  * _Hogwarts issue jumper (Dark grey)_

  * _Hogwarts issue tie (Black)_




 

_All ‘Hogwarts issue’ items of clothing may be purchased from Madam Malkin’s Robery, located in Diagon Alley, London. Please note that all pupils’ clothes should also carry name tags._

 

_Set Books_

_All first-year students should have a copy of each of the following;_

  * _The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk_

  * _A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot_

  * _Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling_

  * _A Beginners’ Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch_

  * _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore_

  * _Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger_

  * _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander_

  * _The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection by Quentin Trimble_

  * _Astronomical Occurences (Beginners) by Patricia Starlet_

  * _Hogwarts: A History_




 

_All books will be made available at Flourish and Blotts, located in Diagon Alley, London. Please note that all pupil’s books should also carry name tags._

 

_Other Equipment_

  * _1 wand_

  * _1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)_

  * _1 box of ‘Slug’s Beginner Potions Ingredients’_

  * _1 set of phials (glass or crystal)_

  * _1 set brass scales_

  * _1 telescope (grade 3)_




 

_Students will also be expected to bring appropriate amounts of ink, parchment and quills to last throughout the school year._

 

_Students may also bring an owl OR a cat OR a toad OR a rat._

 

_PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST-YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS._

 

Harry’s eyebrows furrowed as he finished reading the letter. Sighing to himself, he carefully read it over once more. _It looks real enough,_ he thought to himself, _but it can’t be._

 

“Impossible!” he hissed to himself. “Wizards and witches don’t exist. It’s a joke. It _has_ to be.” _But what if it’s not?_ A small voice in the back of his mind asked. _Haven’t strange things always happened around you? Look at that snake a few weeks ago…_ “If it is real…” Harry trailed off, his mind frantically hunting a way that would allow him to still attend, yet not be made a fool of. “Aha! …please expect a visitation…” The words all but leapt off of the page, presenting him with a simple answer; He would wait and see…

 

\- HBP - HBP - HBP - HBP - HBP -

 

Harry didn’t arrive back at the Dursleys’ house, as he liked to think of it, until near dark. He had spent the entire day exploring even further. If his calculations were correct, he could now recognise most places in a three mile radius of the house he lived in. The other children still avoided him like the plague, though.

 

Harry hesitantly slid through the kitchen door and sidled his way over to the fridge. He opened it slowly, managing to extricate a sausage roll and a pork pie. He stuffed them under his t-shirt, hoping to avoid his aunt and uncle finding out he had taken food.

 

He leaned into the connecting door to the hallway, no sound; all the better. The door creaked slightly as it opened. At the sound, Harry scuttled as quickly as he could to his cupboard, to his sanctuary.

 

“Running from something, boy?” Vernon Dursley’s voice was hard, but his words are slurred. Drunk. Again.

 

“No, Uncle Vernon.” Harry tried to edge away. He could see his cupboard now. Just a few more steps…

 

“Come here, boy!” The slight slur has disappeared, Vernon’s words suddenly commanding. Harry turned slowly, and, dragging his feet, walked towards his uncle.

 

The first clout to his head took him by surprise; Vernon usually at least gave some excuse for hitting him. The left hook to his stomach knocked him to the ground. Harry curled into the foetal position, almost as soon as he hit the ground. His arms covered his face, and his legs curled up to protect his most sensitive parts. Unfortunately, this left his back, sides, chest and most of his head vulnerable to Vernon’s brutal kicks.

 

By the time the eldest Dursley had finished beating his nephew, he was feeling quite well. Meanwhile on the floor, silent tears streaked Harry’s face. At the sound of the stairs creaking under his uncle’s weight, he began the crawl to his cupboard before remembering his room now lay up a flight of stairs.

 

Harry shuddered at the sore spots he knew would become bruises as he climbed what felt like ten-thousand metres up. Just before he collapsed into oblivion, he remembered he had food to eat. He hurriedly scoffed it down before his head hit the lumpy pillow, and he drifted off to sleep.

 

\- HBP - HBP - HBP - HBP - HBP -

 

A full week after Vernon had beaten him, Harry learnt to exactly what extent his uncle was losing it. The letters had continued to arrive at the house no matter what the Dursleys did; his uncle had nailed the mailbox shut so seven letters were pushed through various cracks in doorframes and the window of the downstairs loo. Vernon nailed those shut too.

 

A dozen letters arrived rolled up in as many eggs; Petunia had stopped cooking anything that needed eggs. Four letters arrived in a whited-out milk-bottle; The Dursleys cancelled everything delivered to them.

 

Petunia found no less than nine letters whilst gardening, and Dudley found two in his newest television when he smashed it. Vernon had six delivered to his workplace and three hidden in his car.

 

Harry had learnt that it was best to avoid his uncle when the letters appeared; Vernon’s anger was _always_ transferred to Harry, and frankly, the boy didn’t need any more bruises.

 

\- HBP - HBP - HBP - HBP - HBP -

 

By half past ten on Sunday morning, Harry still couldn’t figure out why his uncle was wearing a gleeful expression. He sat in his favourite armchair, feverishly rubbing his hands together. Dudley was watching him, looking more than slightly confused.

 

“Dad?” He said slowly. “Why are you so happy?”

 

“It’s Sunday. No post on Sundays.” His grin became more manic as he leapt to his feet. “No damn post on Sundays! No stupid fucking letters for that stupid fucking brat!” His eyes twitched towards Harry’s small figure, peering out of the window.

 

“What are those letters, Daddy?”

 

“Never you mind, Dudders. Don’t you…AUGH!” Harry spun round at the sound, quickly enough to see his uncle pulling a letter from his ear.

 

“WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS…” Another letter flew out from the chimney only to land squarely in the beefy man’s mouth. Harry watched in undisguised amusement as a whole host of letters were thrown up into the air. The three Dursley’s ducked, however too slowly for Dudley, who began crying very loudly as three hit his face.

 

“Muh…muh…mummy…” he snivelled. “Make it stop! Please…” Petunia rolled her eyes and began to crawl towards her sherry bottle. Vernon was turning purple.

 

“OUT!” He bellowed. “EVERYBODY OUT! GET YOUR THINGS! WE’RE LEAVING!” Petunia froze with one hand stretched out towards the liquor. Dudley’s face had frozen with his mouth forced open in a frown, tears still streaming down his face. Harry had put his hand in front of his mouth in an attempt to stop laughing.

 

One hour and eighteen minutes later, three Dursleys and Harry were uncomfortably squashed into the family car. The car itself was fairly large, but the youngest Dursley’s luggage consisting of ‘essentials’ was around the size of the eldest Dursley.

 

Dudley himself had huddled into the farthest corner of the car away from his father. He didn’t say much, but all of the occupants of the vehicle were growing tired of the almost constant sniffling. Petunia was clutching her small bag of things to herself, knuckles white. Whenever she shifted, Harry could hear the tell-tale clinking of bottles.

 

Vernon hadn’t said a word to any of them since he had ordered them into the car at least forty minutes previously. He did, however, mutter a lot.

 

“Fucking freaks…got to get away from…freak…all go fucking die…”

 

Harry sat quietly, staring pensively out of the window. He watched as they sped through the city then, later, through the countryside. It was the first time he’d ever been so far away from the Dursley’s house.

 

Eventually they stopped at a small, dilapidated bed and breakfast. Vernon made Dudley and Harry share a room with twin beds. Dudley stole all of Harry’s blankets, claiming to be cold. Harry didn’t really mind; as soon as Dudley fell to sleep he took them back.

 

When they were having breakfast the next morning, the elderly woman who ran the place hobbled over to them.

 

“I trust that one of you is a Mr. H. Potter?” she croaked, smiling toothily as Harry nodded at himself. “A large number of letters have arrived for you.”

 

“I’ll take them.” Vernon stood and followed the woman. Twenty minutes later, they were driving again.

 

The next two nights passed in much the same manner; they drove, drove some more, then stopped at a bed and breakfast. Then the letters came, and they invariably left again. The days bled into each other, so Harry couldn’t tell whether they’d passed the beautiful black horse today, or yesterday, or even the day before.

 

After they’d driven for around four hours, in silence, they stopped in the middle of a forest. Vernon got out of the car, and began to pace.

 

“Mummy, Daddy’s gone mad, hasn’t he?” Dudley sounded utterly dejected. “It’s the thirtieth today, there’s a program about sharks on tonight! Can’t we stay somewhere with a TV?” Before Petunia could answer, her husband twitched his head at the car and all but ran back.

 

This time they drove till the hit the coast. Vernon once more got out of the car, although he immediately disappeared off. Dudley started screaming when he tried to get out and realised he was locked in. Petunia pulled faces at her ever-depleting sherry supply but still took an overly large swig. Harry was still thinking about what Dudley had said earlier.

 

If Dudley was right about the date, and he usually was, then tomorrow would be Wednesday the thirty-first. His eleventh birthday. Of course, his birthdays were never fun; Last year, his uncle had gotten very drunk and decided that an appropriate present would be to break one of his toes for each of his years. Though this year, maybe this year would be better. Could be better.

 

After all, that letter had specifically said that someone would come on the thirty-first. And with the way the letters had followed them, Harry was almost sure that it couldn’t be a hoax. Unless it was one of the Dursleys. He hoped it wasn’t.

 

Harry idly watched the raindrops run down his window. It was difficult to follow just one, as it was raining quite heavily. In fact, Harry realised, it was impossible to see anything outside. He shifted nervously in his seat.

 

By the time Vernon had returned, Petunia was very drunk, Dudley’s wailing had turned into hoarse moans, and Harry’s eyes were wide, looking around almost frantically. Vernon smiled, a sight which did little to reassure the occupants of the car.

 

“Come on. I’ve found us a place they’ll never reach us!” His eyes shone manically as he led them to a small boat and began to row towards a patch of grey fuzz, according to Harry’s eyes. As they drew closer, Harry realised it was a small island on which was an even smaller shack.

 

Vernon led them in proudly. He handed out what he called ‘rations’: an apple and a small bar of chocolate each. Dudley punched his cousin in the side as he stole Harry’s half eaten apple and all of his chocolate.

 

Petunia let her husband eat hers, seeming to believe her sherry was an adequate substitute for food. Surely enough, however, her inebriated state made her very happy, second only to Vernon.

 

“No damn letters here!” he sung to himself gleefully. He batted at Harry’s head but luckily for Harry, he only caught a glancing blow. His mood didn’t even dim when he failed to start a fire with the chocolate wrappers or when Dudley complained about having to sleep on a sofa or when a fierce gust of wind from the storm made the building shake.

 

Harry, of course, was left with the floor in front of the grate. He lay awake, staring into the dark long after the Dursleys all began to snore. Shivering, he rolled over to stare at Dudley’s glowing watch face. Ten minutes and then he’d be eleven. Finally. He hoped that the letter-writer sent someone to find him.

 

Five minutes to go. The roof creaked ominously. Harry hoped that it fell in over the other room onto the bed in which his aunt and uncle slept. Three minutes to go. A sharp slap of water onto the rocks outside. _Crunch._ Harry hoped that the rock wasn’t crumbling into the sea. He didn’t really fancy drowning on his birthday. One minute to go. Thirty seconds. Twenty. Ten - nine - eight - maybe he could steal Dudley’s watch as a present to himself? - three - two - one -

 

 _Boom!_ The shack shivered and Harry bolted upright in bed. Dudley squealed and shrank back under his covers. Vernon mumbled incoherently in his sleep. _Boom!_ And again. It was the door; Harry could see it shaking. His brain struggled to process what his senses were telling him… Someone was at the door.

 

At a loss for what to do, Harry said the only thing he could think of.

 

“Erm…Come in?”

 

 


End file.
